


haunted by the ghost of you

by hartbreaker



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Recovery, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29056428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hartbreaker/pseuds/hartbreaker
Summary: It’s like being shattered, again and again, day after day, too fast and too sudden that he can never quite put all the pieces back together before it all begins anew. Like Prometheus on the mountain, reopening the same wounds day in and day out. He had never known grief before, at least not like this, like all the air had been ripped from his lungs.He misses him.-Eddie dies; Richie is left behind.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	haunted by the ghost of you

It’s like being shattered, again and again, day after day, too fast and too sudden that he can never quite put all the pieces back together before it all begins anew. Like Prometheus on the mountain, reopening the same wounds day in and day out. He had never known grief before, at least not like this, like all the air had been ripped from his lungs.

_He misses him._

More than he thought possible, more than he had any right to. To have found Eddie after all those years, after the universe had seen fit to make it impossible for them to find one another, they had. Even after their memories had been erased, after 27 years -- a lifetime -- apart.

_And then -_

Some days it feels like a dream.

Some days he’ll wake, blissfully ignorant and _happy,_ basking in the possibilities of a new day. For just a few moments he’s able to live in a world where Eddie Kaspbrak is still alive, able to cocoon himself in a protective bubble, safe from all the grief and anguish and _guilt_ that pervades every other waking moment of his life.

And then the bubble bursts.

Those days are almost worse than the others. One would think the brief moment of respite would be preferable to the days when the pain assaults him from the moment he opens his eyes, but at least on those days there’s no hope. There is no rug to be pulled out from under him.

And the nightmares … _God._

A never ending loop of seeing Eddie speared through, his blood on Richie’s hands, the feeling of Eddie’s lifeless body in his hands, of being ripped away as the cavern collapsed around them. The pervading sense of loss, of wrongness. This shouldn’t have happened.

_His fault his fault his fault_

Everyone says it wasn’t his fault. He just smiles and nods like he believes them, like it’s not all a bunch of bullshit. He already feels horrible, why drag them down with him?

Part of him wishes he forgot everything the moment he left Derry again. On the days when the pain is almost too much to bear, he wishes for the serenity of nothingness. To live forever in that bubble of blissful ignorance, to never again have to think about Eddie Kaspbrak, how he had transformed Richie’s world and then torn it all apart. 

But then …

But then he’ll imagine the pure joy that had swelled in his heart the first time he had laid eyes on Eddie after all those years. How easily they had slotted back into their old dynamic, like no time had passed at all.

And then …

Fuck.

How could he forget? How could he go back to the way things were? Standing on stage, night after night, regurgitating jokes somebody else wrote, jokes that felt like sand on his tongue,

It tore him up inside, these conflicting wishes. To want the pain to cease, yet wanting to hold it close, because the pain meant that Eddie had been real, that he hadn’t been a dream. He just wanted him _back._

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that the majority of Richie’s memories of him end at age eighteen. That their time together should be cut so short. To be reunited only to be ripped apart so suddenly. 

He gets sleep meds to help with the insomnia, and washes them down with whisky. Some nights -- the worst nights, when the memories are the clearest, the _loudest,_ pounding away at his skull like a sledgehammer -- he pushes the limits. One extra pill, to help him go down easier. One more glass, to calm his nerves down. It becomes a routine, of sorts. Even the hangovers get less severe, or maybe his body’s just become accustomed. Maybe this is just his life now.

Wouldn’t it be great to not wake up?

He ponders that question a lot. It wasn’t a bad way to go, all things considered. It wasn’t bleeding out in his bathtub, or stabbed through the chest. No pain. No idea it was even happening. Just … floating away, to whatever comes after. Some part of him knows it’s morbid, but it calms him. Knowing it would all be so easy, so painless. And those thoughts he could control, stamp out like embers from a fire when he found himself wading too deep, when his mind actually began to consider the possibility. He didn’t want to die, not really. Dying was so permanent. So final. And he couldn’t do that to the other Losers, not after everything they had been through. Even more, he couldn’t do that to Eddie, to Stan. They were gone against their wishes, and how fucking selfish of Richie would it be to throw his life away when they hadn’t had a choice. It would be like spitting on their graves. But not existing -- to just step away from this body and this life and exist in the nothingness for awhile … now that had some appeal.

Eventually, he finds himself a therapist. Part of him doesn’t think it’ll work, but that’s what messed up people do right? Go to therapy?

He softens the edges of the truth, because he’s sure telling her about defeating an interdimensional killer clown would earn him a one-way trip to the loony bin. That particular bit of baggage he was fine leaving unpacked.

Mostly they talk about him. Him and Eddie. The thought of that makes him laugh. _Him and Eddie._ Because there really was no him and Eddie, was there? Maybe there was once, but that had all ended twenty years ago, after they had all gone their separate ways and let amnesia envelope them like an old friend. It felt silly, saying it all aloud to someone else. To mourn someone who for all intents and purposes he had no business mourning. His therapist suggests he talk to Eddie, to which he stares blankly at her and retorts _Haven’t you been paying attention to anything I’ve been saying?_ Apparently people found it comforting to talk to their dead loved ones like they were still there. He responds that maybe, instead, he’d find a therapist that wasn’t so crazy. She simply smiles and tells him to give a try.

And so he tries.

He goes to the pharmacy down the road, hoping something there -- the medicinal smell, the rows of medications lining the shelves, _anything --_ will trigger a memory. He goes to the run-down arcade at the mall, tries to summon one of the countless memories of him and Eddie at the Derry arcade, bodies pressed closed together, grappling for space in the photo booth. He goes anywhere that even remotely reminds him of Eddie, but … nothing.

He searches and searches and searches for Eddie, but he’s nowhere to be found, which, _duh._ He doesn’t expect to actually “feel his presence”, or something cheesy like that, but the thought of Eddie being gone entirely, just wiped clean from this world like he never existed, was like an extra hard twist of the knife. He could feel the words lodged in his chest, bursting to get out, like a tidal wave swelling to a crest, only to peter out by the time it reached his lips. To say those things aloud, to put them into the universe, was too much. Too sacred. These were words meant for Eddie and Eddie only, and talking into nothingness like it all meant something was an insult.

\----

It’s been … six months? Seven? … since he left Derry, although some days it feels like no time has passed at all. Days feel like years and minutes feel like weeks. Each day is just another obstacle he pushes himself through before he can lose himself to sleep, only to wake up and repeat the process anew the next day. He begins to look forward to therapy, if only for the stability. Something to look forward to, something to make him feel like his life isn’t a big ol’ pile of nothing. He texts the other Losers, enough not to worry them too much, but he knows they do anyway. And why shouldn’t they? They were all off living their new perfect, happy lives. They had fought It and came out the other side better for it. What about him? Where was his happy ending?

His agent has scheduled him for some inane talk show in Vegas, some useless PR to keep him relevant now that he’s no longer doing shows. Something to show that Richie Tozier is still alive. _A bunch of bullshit, really,_ he thinks as he trudges into the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror, the deep lines under his eyes barely hidden by his glasses, too shaggy hair, face desperately in need of a shave, eyes red and bloodshot. He looks like shit. He looks like he’s dead (he has to laugh at the irony of that one). He splashes some cold water on his face in an attempt to spark some life back into his face. He just ends up looking like a wet rat.

He thinks about what he’ll say tomorrow. _Oh, me? What have I been up to? Y’know, just killing evil interdimensional clowns, watching the love of my life die in my arms, and grappling with guilt and self-loathing on a scale never seen before. How about you, Dan? Gotten any lately?_

“Shit,” he groans, tossing his glasses onto the countertop and scrubbing at his eyes with his palms. The thought of the interview makes his skin crawl. Wearily he drags himself to his closet to pick an outfit that doesn’t scream depressed, pathetic loser. As he pulls the door open, his eyes catch on something on the top shelf, a collection of bags and suitcases stuffed there haphazardly, and his breath catches.

Shortly after everything went down, after the worst of the pain had subsided and he no longer felt like jumping in the pit on Neibolt Street and joining Eddie, he’d stopped in New York on his way home to bring Eddie’s things to his wife and explain to her what happened. She was in hysterics, of course, but Richie knew it was all a facade. All she cared about was the money, about what was going to happen to _her._ Not about what mattered. Not about Eddie. He’d considered leaving the suitcases on his way out, but something inside made him take them. He had no idea what he’d do with them, but he wasn’t leaving them there. Where he knew they’d just end up in the bottom of some grimy donation pile. Consigning the few remainders of Eddie to oblivion.

Since then the bags have sat at the back of his closet, unopened and collecting dust.But today, for some reason, he decides, _why not?_ He pulls the suitcases to the floor and drops down beside them. All this time and he hadn’t had the heart to open them. It felt … _wrong,_ somehow. Like an invasion of privacy. Like there was actually someone coming back to them. Richie could hear Eddie’s voice in his head, frantic and annoyed, complaining about order and neatness and _Jesus, Richie, when was the last time you washed your hands?_

“Ever heard of a staph infection,” Richie murmurs with a chuckle, fingering the straps of one of the suitcases, considering. “Fuck it,” he finally mutters, throwing open the first suitcase with a noise that reverberates in the empty apartment.

The suitcase is organized exactly how he expected. Everything folded with military precision, lines so crisp and clean it’d make a military commander cry. Fuck, there’s even one of those day of the week pill organizers tucked neatly underneath a green cardigan. Monday and Tuesday are empty, the rest of the pockets full and waiting.

He gingerly picks up a pale grey cardigan, rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers, imagining Eddie. Then, reluctantly, almost reverently, holds it to his face, breathing in the smell. Lavender detergent. Bleach. And underneath it all, something that, even after all this time, he can recognize as quintessentially Eddie.

He can already feel the tears working their way up and tries futilely to fight them off, only for a few rogue drops to leak out and stain the soft cashmere of the cardigan. It unnerves him. That someone could still have a smell even after they were gone. He wants to preserve it somehow so that the scent is not lost, so he can return again and again, close his eyes and pretend for just a second that it’s actually Eddie there holding him.

He carefully rifles through the rest of the suitcase, full of the same. He sighs and moves to the other suitcase. More clothes. Jesus, how long did Eddie think they were gonna be in Derry? He’s almost done sorting through the pile of shirts and pants when he hears the rustling of paper. Moving aside some more clothes, he finds a small manila envelope tucked in the bottom of the suitcase. The envelope is bare save for one word: Home. Richie feels his breath catch in his throat as he reaches out to grasp the envelope and reveal its contents.

Out topples pieces of paper and an assortment of small objects.

A ticket stub from when they went to go see _Back to the Future Part III,_ a token from the arcade, a tiny pebble that Richie just _knows_ came from the creek where they had their rock war with Bowers.

It’s bits and pieces of Eddie’s life in Derry, all of them memories of the Losers, and he’d stuffed it all in an envelope labeled “home”. Even when Derry was still a foggy memory, even when he could barely remember the others’ names, he had kept these, he had kept them, and packed them carefully at the bottom of his suitcase, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. 

Richie continues to rifle through the envelope, until he gets to the final item. It’s a Polaroid photograph, worn around the edges, as if someone had taken it out time and time again, fiddled with the edges as if worrying a thought. It’s of the Losers, all of them, taken sometime after their summer from hell, their arms wrapped around each other, smiling like they have no cares in the world.

He looks down at his shaking hands, nails bitten down to the quick, then to the suitcases full of a dead man’s clothes. At the memorabilia strewn about his feet, the photograph of those seven children who had been through hell and still managed to find a reason to smile afterward, who didn’t realize that their suffering had only just begun. They were so _young,_ they didn’t deserve it. _Eddie_ didn’t deserve it

And it’s suffocating. A chill runs down his spine, and he half expects to find a pale, shimmering figure in the doorway. Sitting there, surrounded by practically everything Eddie had owned, he definitely feels haunted, and not in the way he usually does. He thinks back to what his therapist said and sighs. “Fuck it.”

“Hey, Eddie. I dunno if you can hear me, but I figured I’d try. They got good cell reception in the afterlife?” He shakes his head. “That was a dumb joke. I’m kinda out of practice, but old habits die hard, huh? I don’t know what I’m supposed to say here. That you dying kind of fucked up my life? That life doesn’t seem worth living without you?

“I just … I miss you. _Fuck,_ I miss you Eds. And that’s the worst fuckin’ part, right? Like, why did we have to lose our memories? Why take all that time away if It was just gonna kill us? Why not let us have that time? _So much time._ Fucking twenty-seven years, man. I think that’s why I can’t let this go. Maybe if we’d spent all that time together it’d make things easier, you know? Cus then I’d have all those memories to go back to and it wouldn’t feel like the universe was laughing at me. But instead, I’m sitting here crying over someone who, really, I didn’t even know.” And that was true: he can’t remember where Eddie went to college, doesn’t know why he chose to move to New York, his favorite restaurants, his favorite movies. All he knew was a snapshot of Eddie, frozen in time forever at the last moment Richie saw him. And yet … He continues: “But you never felt like a stranger to me. Hell, even after all those years it felt like I’ve been talking to you all that time. Still felt like a stupid teenager in love with his best friend.” A smile breaks out on his face. “Never told you that, huh? _Surprise._ You were actually the first person I ever loved like that. Maybe the only person I’ve ever loved. And seeing you again in that restaurant, talking with you like old times … part of me thought maybe this was my shot. Maybe that was the silver lining to all of this, that I’d get to have a second chance with you, just like Ben and Bev. ‘Course we all know how that turned out.”

His phone buzzes and he startles, hands scrambling to find it amongst all the things scattered on the floor. When he finally finds it he’s greeted by a text from Bev. _Hey sweetie, it’s been awhile, how are you?_

He can’t remember the last time he texted her or the other Losers, so content was he to wallow in his misery and let every message go read but unanswered, hoping eventually they’d take the hint and leave well enough alone. His finger hovers over the message, preparing to dismiss it as well, when he catches his reflection in the small screen. Red-rimmed eyes behind his glasses, tear tracks down his face. The face of someone utterly broken and unmoored from reality. For a second he doesn’t even recognize himself. He hates what he sees, hates what he’s been reduced to.

Something inside him shifts, looking at this mirror version of himself. He doesn’t know why this final image is what shakes him, moves him when months of therapy and help from his friends hasn’t. But he comes to a conclusion, and it’s this: he doesn’t want to be that person anymore. After months of wrapping himself completely in his grief, in him and Eddie and what could have been but will never be, the thought of leaving it behind scares him. But he knows it’s right. 

He clears his throat before speaking once more to the empty room. “I’m .. I’m tired of feeling like this. I love you, Eds. I’m always gonna love you. I’m always gonna wonder what could have been, if you ever felt the same, but I don’t wanna just be happy in some hypothetical scenario. I wanna be happy _now._ And I think … I think the first step is to let you go. At least a little bit. So, this is goodbye, I guess. At least for now.”

He doesn’t expect a response, but there’s a feeling in his chest, like finishing a beloved book series or walking across the stage at graduation. A sense of finality, of closure. He lets the tears fall, lets himself have this one last moment of sadness, before he wipes his eyes, picks up his phone, and begins typing a response to Beverly’s text.

\----

He begins to write again. Sets that are at times hilarious and at others heartbreaking. He bares his soul, finally setting the truth free (or, as much of the truth as he could, killer clowns notwithstanding). His agent, of course, is thrilled. (His writers not so much). But he’s not thinking of crowds, of selling out night clubs like he used to. This isn’t for anyone but himself. It’s catharsis in its purest form. Just getting the words onto paper and saying them in front of a crowd, releasing them out into the universe and stopping them from festering in his soul, is enough. It doesn’t matter to him whether three people or three hundred showed up. He doesn’t care if they sit silently before him, if no one laughs. He doesn’t care if they boo and scream obscenities. After everything he’s been through, what’s a few hecklers?

He doesn’t expect anyone to actually _like_ the new material. 

It’s almost overwhelming, that first big laugh of the night, hitting him and almost knocking him over. He hadn’t gotten laughs like that in months, and it had always felt hollow, knowing the words they were laughing at weren’t his. Maybe it’s a fluke, maybe they’re just being polite to stave off the awkward silence every comedian dreads. But then, a minute later, there it is again. Erupting all around and enveloping him. And again and again and again.

They love it.

They love him. The _real_ him, not the persona he’s built his career hiding behind. The depressed, anxious, grieving gay him.

Over time, the sweaters lose their scent. The photo is framed and displayed on the mantel, and eventually the sight of it fills him with happiness instead of grief. He and the other Losers build new memories, but never forget what came before. He throws himself back into his career, finding joy in it for the first time in years, in being able to share the real Richie Tozier with the world.

He makes new friends, makes new lovers.

He learns to appreciate everything life throws at him, from the extraordinary to the mundane. Learns to anchor himself in the present, appreciate every moment as it comes, rather than getting mired in the past or potential futures.

There are still days when he’ll wake up and find himself unable to leave his bed. Lets those horrible thoughts invade his mind, loses himself in those suffocating waters. Wonders why he’s even still there. And then he’ll think of that wonderful, amazing, spitfire of a man, who beneath all the medications and reluctance wanted nothing more than to live life to the fullest.

And so Richie does, for the both of them.

He lives.

He lives.

_He lives._

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr!](https://roguespeedster.tumblr.com/)


End file.
